


Brother, Mine

by shipwreck_eyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Sam, Case Fic, First Time, Hunt Fic, Jealousy, Longing, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, case!fic, ghost - Freeform, jealous!Dean, top!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreck_eyes/pseuds/shipwreck_eyes
Summary: Sam (begrudgingly) and Dean (happily) take a mini-vacay post-gig at a posh Palm Springs resort. What was meant to be a drama-free rest stop (aside, of course, from Sam's lifelong suppressed feelings for the brother currently sprawling on silk sheets rearing their ugly head yet again) turns out to be a total awakening for Dean when a beautiful stranger attempts to steal Sam's heart—and a vengeful spirit slashes her icy way onto the scene... ultimately forcing long-buried feelings to the surface for two brothers hell-bent on misunderstanding each other.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Brother, Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime between mid-season 4 and mid-season 5.
> 
> (P.S. - if you're curious who Sam's lover is based off of, I spent an entire summer crushing on Andy Baraghani from Bon Appetit. Look him up. You're welcome *_*)

  
  


“Too rich for my blood,” Dean whistled, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Sam closed the Impala’s passenger door, handing the keys to a young, fresh-faced valet (he had to pry them away from Dean when the kid insisted there was no self-parking). He stepped around his brother to look through the resort doors, and his eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead.

To say the Sunset Pearl was lavish and glittering would be like saying the sun itself was bright- _ ish _ . Every surface exuded classic Palm Springs: coral colors, gold furnishings, gleaming marble. Even the staff could have stepped out of a 1960’s Visit California ad: polished and perfect, sun-kissed and lean, so blond and blue-eyed it hurt to look at for too long—like staring directly at the giant burning cosmic body overhead itself.

“Sammy,” Dean clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder, mischievous grin stretching his freckles across his face, “this is gonna be  _ awesome _ .”

After a dubious once-over from an aloof concierge, they grabbed the gilded keys to room 86 and stepped into an elevator wrapped wall-to-wall with backlit mirrors. 

“So wha’s with th’job here, ‘gain?” Dean asked around the free,  _ ridiculously perfect _ finger sandwiches he’d nabbed from the concierge desk.

“Classic haunting, I think.” Sam couldn’t stop staring at the infinity versions of himself disappearing into the mirrored walls. He looked…  _ tired _ . “Some famous Hollywood actress who was rumored to have been killed by her lover here. The staff claims they’ve seen her wandering the halls, and now we’ve got two murders. Both couples, stabbed to death in the act, and no evidence to speak of.”

“Fuuuuck.” Dean whistled as he chewed, swiping his tongue over his full lips to catch any crumbs. Sam glanced at him, and quickly away. “That’s just rude. Right when you’re about to shoot your payload, boom! A stabby bitch appears.” 

The hallway to their room was drenched in dazzling light from tall windows that offered a sweeping view of the Palm Springs desert. Sam was reminded painfully of Stanford—weekends at the pool with Jess, watching her skin slowly burnished into a golden caramel brown, water drops sliding down her stomach to pool in her belly button. 

Dean unlocked their door and did a quick perimeter check before tossing his bag on the farthest bed. “You want to check out the pool?” He asked, shooting a glance at Sam as his younger brother unpacked the laptop.

“I’m good. Need to start researching the case, if we want to wrap this up and be back on the road by Thursday.”

“It’s  _ Tuesday _ , dude.” Dean flopped back on the silk sheets, propping himself up on his elbows and letting his head fall back. He was practically  _ smouldering  _ and he wasn’t even trying. Sam absently wondered how flammable silk was. “I say we smoke the bitch, and take a goddamn break afterwards. We’ve been on the road for weeks, and I could use a few days of the good life, y’know?” 

Sam smiled as he pulled up the murder reports. “Hey man, why don’t you strut yourself down to the pool and get yourself a pina colada?”

A perfectly-aimed pillow bounced off the back of his head. “More like a perky blond.” Dean grumbled, but started pulling off his outer layers anyway.

Sam had seen it a hundred times, but watching the muscles of Dean’s back move under his white t-shirt, watching the hem pull up just briefly enough to expose a strip of taught, lean stomach peppered with golden hairs—it was achingly tempting, and just as quickly, Sam shook those thoughts from his head and returned to his research. _ I must really need to get laid, _ he thought,  _ if I just caught myself looking at Dean like I did as a horny teenager. _

There was no denying that his brother was gorgeous, but Sam had already lost too many lonely years and long nights battling those feelings to allow them any screen time in his head. Turns out, when you’re as extremely logical as he is, shutting out the impossible is relatively easy. It’s confronting the accidental looks, the stolen glances, that gets harder every day.

“Alright, time for beer.” Dean grabbed a towel and made for the door. “Don’t order room service without me.”

Sam gave his big brother a half-nod, nose buried deep in graphic murder details.

\-----

A few hours later, back aching and eyes bleary, Sam shut the laptop off and walked to the window overlooking a sprawling outdoor paradise. The pool seemed endless, the desert gardens colorful and surreal, the outdoor kitchens bustling with chefs and languid diners. He stretched his long body out, feeling his bones crack, and knew that he must look as terrible as he felt.

“Right. Pool, Dean, food.” He reminded himself, hearing his stomach growl.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where Dean had been for the last several hours. As Sam rounded the curve of the glittering pool, dotted with both glamorous locals and pale, pudgier tourists, his eyes were drawn to a familiar figure sprawled out on a lounge chair under a fabulous umbrella, empty beer bottle at his side. 

...Snoring.

“Dean,” Sam shook his head, smiling fondly to himself, and looked toward the outdoor kitchens—maybe there was a menu he could grab and take back.

Halfway toward the kitchen, Sam stopped in the gardens. The sun hadn’t set yet, but radiant pastel light bathed the landscape in warm tones, setting fire to the horizon. He stopped and inhaled, absently touched the firm agave leaves, the flowering succulents. There was a chef’s garden, too, overflowing with tender Thai basil leaves, fragrant thyme, piney rosemary.

The tension of being constantly on the road began, slowly but surely, to ease from his shoulders and melt down his back. He felt like he could stay here forever, if it wasn’t for Dean, for their mission.

“Hello there.”

Surfacing from his moment of tranquility, a honey-warm voice tickled Sam’s ears, pulling his gaze to the side as if caught on a line. A man in chef’s whites stood holding herb snips and a bundle of tarragon, as casual as sunlight drifting across the sea. He was about Dean’s height, dark eyes and hair, gleaming skin the color of caramel. Toned, strong arms held a basket full of fresh ingredients, and Sam realized with alarm that he’d been staring a little too long—long enough to be awkward.

“Uh. Hi, hi there.” Sam ducked his head, cheeks reddening.  _ What was wrong with him? _

“It’s always nice to see a guest enjoying the gardens,” the handsome chef said, a smile teasing at the corners of his full, dusky-rose lips. How long were his lashes, anyway? Chocolate-colored, gold-flecked eyes raked up and down Sam—with surprising gentleness. “Are you dining with us tonight?”

“I thought—I was going to get room service,” Sam recovered, running a hand through his shaggy locks. “We’ve been on the road for so long, I don’t think we’re fit for polite company tonight.”

The young man’s eyes twinkled. “I think you’d look just perfect at my chef’s table,” he said, nodding to the restaurant. “But I understand. The resort is a bit, well, isolated. You get used to seeing people come and go—but never really stay.” Did Sam detect a note of sadness to his voice?

“Look, I uh, need to get back to my brother. He fell asleep by the pool, and he’ll be angry-hungry when I wake him up.” Sam took a step back. “But thank you.”

“Sure you don’t want me to bring something up to your room?” The chef asked playfully.

“ _ No _ —no, I mean, no thank you.” Sam blurted, cheeks flushed. “And… if it helps, I get it. You know, the whole isolation thing. People not… sticking around. I guess that’s why my brother and I are so close.” He offered a sympathetic smile, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” The chef called out, strong, capable hands setting down his herb snips to reach out in greeting. “I’m Andy, the Chef du Cuisine here. What’s your name?”

Sam hesitated, suddenly shy. “Sam. Winchester.” He shook the other man’s hand, and tried not to openly react to how warm it was—beautifully calloused from handling knives for years, yet smooth on the outsides, perfectly maintained fingernails. A strange, soothing feeling ran up his arm. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Andy returned, and Sam saw genuine intention in his eyes and his words.

He tried his best to walk casually away, when every part of him wanted to run.

\-----

“Whassit?” Dean asked blearily as Sam’s hand closed on his shoulder, shaking gently. “I’m hongreh.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam hauled his brother to his feet. “Let’s get back to the room and order some food. I’ll update you on the job details.”

The room service arrived on a silver cart pushed by yet another fresh-faced young Californian—and Sam breathed a sigh of relief that no beaming smile in a white chef’s coat accompanied it. Dean dug into his burger with gusto, relaxing back onto the sumptuous silk sheets with obvious pleasure, and Sam smiled in his eyes to see his brother so content after such a backbreaking month of back-to-back hunts and angels being dicks.

“So,” Dean shifted, kicking his shoes off, “what’ve you found?”

Sam filled him in on the grim details and surveillance footage he found. “Her name was Margery Atwood. She’d just broken into film and was set to be the next  _ darling of cinema _ —at least, that’s what her obit claimed.” He brought a forkful of perfectly crisp vegetables to his mouth, “...until she fell into a sort of _ lovers quarrel _ with this hotshot director—”

He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly fully focused on the forkful he’d just put in his mouth. It was intoxicating: crisp chili oil dancing across his tongue, the bite of meyer lemon, a backbone of salty, heady parmesan sauce… wrapped around silky, julienned slivers of broccoli rabe, bok choy and snow peas. Suddenly, all of the gas station veggie wraps he’d shoved down over the years felt like pale ghosts of real food.

“So what’d she do? Tell this guy to shove it after he gave her her big break?” Dean picked up his trail, gaze falling on the sunset outside their window.

“Uh… sort of, yeah.” Sam came back to reality, tongue tingling with bliss. The dish was  _ perfect _ . And it… it had a note wrapped around the napkin ring? Pulling the piece of paper off, Sam slowly unrolled the paper, unveiling an elegant script: 

_ Hello there. I hope you’re the same Sam I met in the garden. If so, this is on me. Hope you like it as much as I liked meeting you. _

Cheeks burning, Sam pocketed the note and speared another forkful. Dean was making  _ very _ happy purring noises as he relished his burger just as much, it seemed.

“Here’s the thing,” Sam continued, “she thought she had this guy wrapped around her little finger, and started sleeping with her co-star—but the director found out, and  _ lost it _ . Caught them in bed together, here at the Pearl, and stabbed them both. Now, it seems like her ghost only strikes couples in illicit relationships. I mean, the two murders this past month were people having affairs with each other. Very not-so-kosher stuff.”

“So what, we need to… find one of these couples here, and hide out… while they  _ do it? _ No thanks.” Dean snorted.

“Or we could… stage something?” Sam suggested.

“With who, exactly? Me and you?” Dean laughed at the preposterousness, then fell uncomfortably silent. “Or we could, uh, pay some married chick to fake it? Right?” 

Sam shot his brother a weedling grin, “it’s not like a married chick hasn’t  _ faked it  _ with you before, right? No big deal.”

Again, he didn’t see the pillow coming.

\-----

With a plethora of vapid, aging beauties all over the resort, it wasn’t hard to find a stand-in. Dean buttered her up while Sam rolled his eyes, and the stage was set: a room on the east wing (their room this time, 86), two people in bed, elusive in the night—just like the two murders before.

Only, it didn’t work.

“I’m sorry honey, but I’ve got to get back before my kids wake up,” Vanessa cooed, trailing her fingers across Dean’s chest while Sam stood cramped and uncomfortable in the closet. The sun was rising, and after a few hours of half-hearted fake foreplay, their (completely unknowing) bait hadn’t tempted the ghost into a stabbing spree, it seemed.

“This was fun, hun,” Vannesa pulled on her sleek black dress. “Promise we’ll fly past third base next time, sweetie?”

“You got a deal,” Dean swallowed around his forced smile, clearly glad to be free of the simpering blond.

The moment the door closed, Sam burst from the closet with a heartfelt, “ _ fucking finally _ . That was SO weird.”

“Weird,  _ and _ a bust,  _ and  _ that was  _ barely _ third base.” Dean grumbled, pulling on his jeans. Sam knew he wasn’t  _ actually _ all that put out—they were on the job, after all.

Sam tried not to look at the perfect dusky-rose color of his brother’s taught nipples against the cool AC. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before a shirt was tugged down over them.

“But you know what, Sammy?” Dean slapped Sam’s ass on the way to the door, grinning. “I’m just glad you finally got to come out of the closet.”

Sam’s ears were burning beet red, but he kept his mouth shut, lips pressed thin, and decided not to honor that cheap shot of a half-assed attempt at a joke. Even if it did send a little ache down his ribs and tight into his chest, where  _ lots _ of hidden things were buried.

\-----

They needed a real couple as bait, they decided over breakfast. “I think it has to be… like, two people who aren’t meant to be together.” Dean offered, wolfing down a plate of bacon and eggs. The very concept of  _ Avocado Toast _ , which Sam had ordered, seemed to completely escape him.

“Wait a minute.” Sam’s shoulders peeled back. “The actress—Margery—she died from jealousy. Stabbed by a jealous lover, and all.” He chewed this over, Dean waiting impatiently. “So she’s murdering cheating couples that would leave others jealous, spurned, angry. Right?”

“So what’s her name—Vanessa—from last night? She wasn’t married, then?” Dean followed.

“She must be divorced,” Sam let out a heavy sigh. “And probably all the richer for it. Shit.”

“We need to scout this place out for cheaters wearing wedding rings, then?” Dean looked bored  _ already. _

“Or otherwise  _ taken _ , but, yeah.” Sam shrugged.

Dean perked up instantly—Sam knew he’d just had a lightbulb go off, he could read his brother like the back of his hand—and those emerald-green eyes flew wide open. 

“Swingers, Sam.” Dean was clearly more interested now. “I get to crash a swingers party.  _ Hell  _ yeah _. _ ”

\-----

They decide to split up the scouting work, with Dean hunting down any rooms making  _ thump-thump-ahhh! _ party sounds, and Sam camped out at the bar, watching for bedroom eyes and poorly-concealed subterfuge.

“Sam?”

Sam nearly dropped his beer when a rough-gentle voice whispered past his ear. He swiveled in his chair and froze, face-to-face with the chef from the garden.  _ Out of uniform. _

_ So, this is where the expression ‘a tall drink of water’ came from, _ he thought, mouth suddenly as dry as the California desert outside. The chef’s whites were gone, and Andy looked like—christ—like a Persian god poured into a pair of buttery, beaten-up jeans and a tight white t-shirt. Golden-dark tanned skin, luminous chocolate eyes, those full lips. The only thing that gave him away was the tidy knife bag slung over his shoulder.

“H-hey.” Sam sputtered, then straightened in his seat and smoothed his hands over his thighs. “You’re not, you know, working the dinner shift or whatever?”  _ Ugh. Stupid question. _

“I had to get out of the kitchen.” Andy smiled, and it was mega-watt. “Our Sous Chef and Saucier—both “happily” married on social media, right?—have been sleeping together for  _ weeks  _ now. I’m trying to work, and they just keep staring at each other and giggling and disappearing into the walk-in for ‘inventory.’ It’s killing my vibe,” Andy laughed, looking down at the floor and running a hand through his glossy dark hair.

“Oh.” Sam looked away.  _ Mental note: we’ve found our couple _ .

“Can I join you?” Andy asked in a way that somehow, impossibly, sounded both tantalizing and demure all at once.

“Um, sure. Yeah. Here,” Sam moved his bag to his left side, making room for Andy to take the stool to his right. The knife bag was stored on a hook underneath, and Andy barely had to look around before the bartender was right there, holding a rocks glass. 

“Andyyyyy,” she smiled widely, “my very  _ favorite _ person. The usual?”

Andy laughed, and Sam couldn’t help but watch the graceful way his adam's apple bobbed up and down. “You only say that because I make you beignets on Sunday,” he countered. “And sure. Thanks, Em.”

The bouncy, Cali-blond bartender, well,  _ bounced off _ to make what appeared to be a Manhattan. 

“So, was it good for you?” Andy asked, pivoting his body to half-face Sam, and the warmth he exuded was laced with spice and notes of honey.

“What?” Sam blurted, feeling his cheeks redden.

“Dinner last night?” Andy replied, Cheshire-cat-like. Dang it, he  _ definitely  _ knew what he was doing. 

“Right. Right, yes. Thank you. It was incredible,” Sam answered honestly. 

“I’m glad,” Andy replied, looking down at his coaster, smiling softly. A Manhattan did, in fact, appear on his coaster then, burnished copper liquid sluicing around the hefty ice cube. Sam could smell the heat of the alcohol, the bitters and intense orange zest, and oddly... thought of Dean. The images came unbidden: three weeks ago outside Yuma, Dean relaxed on the bed post-hunt and post-shower, hand on his belly, laughing at the Spanish soap opera on the TV screen. Just distracted enough to not notice Sam watching him longingly, bathed in warm lamplight and blue-white florescent flickers.

“So, what brings you to Palm Springs?” Andy asked, snapping Sam back into the present.

“Ah, work. Business.” Their go-to answer. “My brother and I, we’re… researching something.”

“Is it the murders?” Andy queried, leaning in, his eyes and smile bright—genuinely interested.

Sam couldn’t help but look taken aback at the spot-on guess. “Actually… yeah. We’re researching the case. What do you know about them? I thought the feds were keeping it pretty hush-hush...”   
  


“When something completely out of the normal happens, we all can’t help but notice.” Andy swirled his cocktail in the glass, and Sam drank up the finesse in his movements, the corded muscles playing across his tanned arms. “Someone said it was the ghost— _ Margery _ . I didn’t buy that for a second, of course. And I’ve never seen her… but then again, most of our essential staff don’t live in the hotel proper—we live in apartments just behind the garden.”

“Were you here when the murders happened?” Sam asked in a low voice.

Andy leaned in even closer, and his thigh met Sam’s, sending heat through the thin fabric and shivers down Sam’s spine. “It was _crazy_. We were all told to act like _nothing had_ _happened_. Even the maids were sworn to secrecy. The feds wanted it quiet. I saw photos, though.” he shivered, too, and looked away. “Those stab wounds were real. A sick person did this. _Ghosts?_ That’s just a rumor going around.”

Sam smiled and bit the inside of his cheek.  _ If only you knew,  _ he thought. 

“So… want to get some fresh air?” Andy asked, looking around at the crowded bar. “The gardens are even more beautiful at night.”

Sam contemplated it for a moment—he was  _ supposed  _ to be scouting this crowded bar, anyway—and had an epiphany about their next ghost bait duo. “Sure. Can you, um, show me where the staff’s apartments are?”

The words were already out of his mouth before he realized how Andy might take them. The radiant smile the handsome chef tossed him was impossible to miss.

“Definitely.”

\-----

“Over there, behind the rose garden.” Andy gestured toward the staff apartments, moonlight rendering him sleek and silver. He turned a bemused smile on Sam, “did you want a tour?”

“No, um, that’s ok.” Sam was quick to respond, feeling the familiar flush that Andy seemed so good at causing creep back up his cheeks. “Maybe another time.”

“Is that a promise?” Andy asked quietly, caressing a fragrant rose at his side. The blooms seemed to open up for him, to him, seeking more from his fingers. 

Sam decided to deflect—for his sanity, of course. “So your, um, coworkers? They live there too? The Sous Chef and… Saucier?”

If Andy thought it was a strange question, he didn’t show it. “Yep, Molly and Lieu. But I know where they spend their  _ nights off, _ if you know what I mean,” he winked. There was an irrepressible playfulness to him that Sam found, well, irresistible. Kind of like Dean when he would finally let his guard down and laugh, _ really laugh _ , and sling his arm around Sam and keep his hand on the back of Sam’s neck and play with his hair and all the world would be okay and right again. “I figured it out based on their kitchen code,” Andy continued, and Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Kitchen code?”

“It’s what we use to communicate,” Andy elaborated. “Like, 5-out is time til plating. Deuce is a 2-top. 86’d means you’re out of something. And fuck you is just, well, fuck you.”

Sam laughed, and his shoulders eased away from his ears, relaxed down his back. As Andy’s appreciative gaze swept over his dimples, a thought snuck into his head:

_ 86’d is out. Room 86. Our room. _

“Anyway, when Molly and Lieu would be cleaning up and packing their knives, sometimes they’d say, ‘88 on the books tonight,’ ‘88 covers,’ or something like that. That’s their room: room 88.”

_ Holy shit, _ Sam thought.  _ The room next to ours. _

As they walked back through the gardens toward the pool, stars gleaming above, Sam ran a hand through his hair and coughed awkwardly. “Well, thanks, man.” He offered a tight, guarded smile to the chef. “I appreciate the info earlier—who knows, maybe we can use it in our story.”

Andy paused, and before Sam knew what was happening, he was pulling his shirt over his head. Dusky golden hairs peppered his beautifully-muscled chest, his strong biceps, capable hands. There were coppery freckles dusted across his shoulders and neck, turned silvery in the moonlight. He gestured toward the pool, easy in his elegance—well-honed just like a chef would be. “Actually, I know how you can repay me. Go for a swim?”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh. “I—I better get back to my brother. It’s unwise to leave him up to his own devices for too long.”

Andy tried not to look put-out, but Sam could feel the ghost of sadness and rejection in his dark eyes, just there under long sweeping lashes. Andy tossed his shirt over his shoulder, and with an edge of determination, took one step closer to Sam, closing the already small distance between them, head tilted up. “Maybe another time?” He asked, close enough for his warm breath to flutter over Sam’s lips, and Sam’s stomach did a flip-flop off the diving board for him.

“I can’t make any promises…” Sam whispered, feeling a knot unravel somewhere inside. It had been so long since he’d felt this level of attraction—an attraction he was allowed to _act_ _on_. His entire body burned with the desire to release it, to let go of _something_ , pulling him like a magnet toward Andy.

Their lips brushed, not quite a kiss, bodies close enough to share the same electric current, and Sam’s fingertips danced across Andy’s skin at the hip, soft to the touch, lean muscle underneath. In return, Sam felt a palm rest against his lower back, warm, insistent. His blood rushed south and tightened his jeans. The night suddenly seemed so heady, so humid, so impossibly immense.

And just as his lips began to seal the kiss, Andy stepped back, leaving scorching-hot fingerprints behind. Sam caught his breath, and closed his eyes—just briefly. 

“You have somewhere to be, right?” Andy reminded him, suddenly shy. Sam couldn’t help but notice the outline of a generous cock pleading to be set free from its denim trap.

“...I do.” Sam responded, looking curiously at the beautiful young chef who was somehow heartbreakingly open, yet achingly closed off.

“See you around, Sam.” Andy turned, smile still on his face, and walked back toward the apartments. Sam contemplated cooling off in the pool, but the thought of seeing Dean sprawled on those silk sheets drew him back to room 86 instead.

\-----

“Dude,” Dean blurted out right as Sam pushed the door swung open, “swingers are so  _ gross. _ ”

Laughing, Sam dropped his bag in the chair and flopped back on the bed. “So, does that mean luck or no luck?”

“Oh, I found a party,” Dean went on, looking as if the words coming out of his mouth tasted terrible. “But they were all here for a  _ Plastics Manufacturing Convention _ , and while there were definitely a few married folks in the bunch, it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d call ‘making love.’ More like ‘eating mashed potatoes off of private parts for fun.” He looked… well, queasy to say the least.

“So no  _ lovers _ to make someone else stab-level-jealous?” Sam grinned.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Mashed potatoes are dead to me.”

“Well, I’ve got something.” Sam grabbed a beer out of the mini-fridge. “I found out about two  _ happily-married _ employees here that are having a real love tryst—and will probably have soon-to-be jealous spouses at home.”

“Spill,” Dean said, taking a swig from his own overpriced beverage.

“Two of the kitchen staff. They’ve been indulging in a  _ lover’s rendezvous _ every other night or so, in room 88.”

Dean nearly spit out his beer. “The room  _ next _ to ours? The one that is closed for repairs?”

“Yup.”

“Time to set up the easiest stake-out of our lives, Sammy.”

\-----

And… it didn’t work.  _ Again. _

Sure, the infidelitous couple had come, came and gone, but no ghost.

_ What’s wrong here? _ Sam thought, hours and hours later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was  _ so, so tired _ . At first, Dean was goofing off, making silent comedic faces to match the moans inside the room. All too quickly, however, he tired of the butt-slapping ambience. 

“This is the suckiest kind of ghost. The kind that makes you listen to ‘spill your secret sauce on me, daddy,’ eighteen fucking times.” Despite the humor, Dean was wiped out, too—but Sam caught him scrutinizing his exhausted little brother in a rare moment of concern.

Despite the lack of action that night—er, ghost-busting action—they decided to take a harder look at hotel decor and Hollywood history moving forward. If there was something Margery Atwood had left behind here—some kind of remains—they might be able to find it and burn it without ever seeing the damn bitch.

The next morning, they did a sweep of paintings, statues, keepsakes—anything at all that could be concealing or displaying a lock of hair, an outfit, a bloody knife. Nothing. Sam knew his focus was off—he kept missing things, tripping over his own feet, forgetting to conceal his movements. It felt like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I uh… I think I’ll head into town, hit up the library.” Dean threw out over their to-go lunch, still looking worriedly at his little brother.

“You?  _ Library? _ ” Sam couldn't help but laugh. “Okay, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” Dean’s brow furrowed, and he pursed those full, impossibly perfect lips. “I just, I think you need the sleep. I’ll handle it, you get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

Sam studied him, soaking up the big brother energy, and shrugged. “Okay.”

“That’s it? Just ‘okay’?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then.”

Dean seemed almost proud of himself for winning this sure-as-shit-to-be-a-fight (except not so much), packing up his bag and grabbing the valet ticket. “Beauty sleep for you. Some alone time with Baby for me.”

Sam sank back on the bed, thought about burnt-caramel skin and long, dark lashes and swift, strong, calloused hands holding a knife with finesse, and let sleep take him.

\-----

It was early evening, framed by a dying sunset, when Sam woke up. He peeled his towering length off the sheets, crushed from a long, deep sleep, and padded across the room toward the window, where palm trees swayed in the breeze.

He checked his phone—nothing from Dean other than a few complaints about how uncomfortable library chairs were, and a couple of questions about the time period. Still deep in research, then.

Sam decided to do another sweep for remains, now that he was alert and rested. After a couple of hours sneaking into employee offices and questioning maids in broken Spanish, it occurred to him: 

_Their room. Oh—OH._ They’d never checked _their room…_ room 86.

Turning off and pocketing the EMF, he turned purposefully back toward the east wing of the hotel, narrowly avoiding a raucous bachelorette party just as he entered the glamorous, busy lobby. Dodging perky hotel staff and lumbering tourists from both directions, he rounded the corner outside the sauna room and ran  _ right smack into  _ someone coming out of it.

“ _ Oof _ —oh, ’m sorry—” Sam started, and froze when he looked up, caught in a pair of shining, deep-chocolate eyes.  _ Andy. _ Wearing nothing but… a towel?

“The pleasure is all mine, Sam.” Andy teased, revisiting his words from their first meeting in the gardens. He was flushed, hair damp, skin gleaming, water droplets taking their sweet time as they slid down his lithe body to disappear in the towel wrapped around his waist. The bag he’d been holding had fallen to the floor. “Not a bad way to end a sauna session.”

Sam swallowed heavily, leaning down to retrieve the bag. “I’m, uh, I didn’t… see you. Coming. Er.”

Andy just smiled, holding his eyes. The alcove they were in—the entrance to the fitness area—was fairly secluded, despite its central location. Sam glanced to his left, toward the east wing hallway and his mission, and felt a warm hand on his neck, sliding up to cup his jaw, and his hazel eyes turned as if dragged by magnetic forces, back to the chef.

“Your pulse. I can feel it,” Andy whispered. “Your heart is racing.”

Sam tried to find words, tried to think of Dean—what would Dean  _ think? _ —and  _ oh god _ , the pain of that impossible desire left unfulfilled tore through his chest and lit a fire in his belly. He crashed into Andy like a lodestone, mouth hungry, hands insistent, sliding over slick, oiled shoulders the color of desert sand. Andy took his force and absorbed it, embraced it, hands coming up to run through Sam’s hair, their lips sucking, biting, tongues darting back and forth, tasting. 

Sam’s hand slipped lower, gripping Andy’s hips as he pushed into the chef, dick filling and firm, pressing against his jeans and into the damp towel. He shifted his pose, and Andy moaned, his own hefty erection sliding against Sam’s. He smelled like the sauna: cedarwood, orange oil, sage. Sam’s lips moved to his neck, ghosting across the dark stubble there, sucking where neck meets shoulder, drinking in the other man’s heady scent.

“Wait,” Andy pulled away, and Sam released a low, suppressed growl, surprising himself. Again, it had been  _ so long.  _ “Not here. Your… your room?”

For a fleeting moment, Sam felt white-hot nerves flare high in his chest.  _ The job… Dean _ . But his need for release, for connection, for someone  _ exactly this height with strong hands and copper freckles and long lashes and full dusky-rose lips _ … won out. Dean wouldn’t be back for several hours, at least.

“Yes. 86.” He managed, pulling the chef away from the wall and grabbing his bag.

\-----

This time, it was Andy who pushed Sam up against the wall, tongue hot across his collarbone as the door clicked softly shut behind them. Sam’s head fell back, a gentle thunk against the gilded wallpaper, and let those skilled chef hands and capable fingers slowly peel away his top layers, leaving burning kisses in their path. He reached down to the towel, could feel the hard length of Andy’s cock straining against the damp cotton, and palmed it roughly, caressed the head. “Off,” he hissed, tugging at the towel, opening his eyes to lock gazes with the other man, breathing heavy.

“Who knew…” Andy panted, pushing his hips forward and rocking his erection into Sam’s generous palm, “...that the shy man I met in the gardens is really a… a  _ wolf in bed _ .” He smiled, stepping back with barely-contained restraint, brushing his hands over his lean stomach, over the wisps of golden curls that trailed down. Slowly,  _ too slowly _ , he unwrapped the towel, dropping it at his feet, and Sam’s breath caught in his throat at the chef’s gorgeous, sun-kissed thighs, his pool of dark, coppery hair, and the thick, beautifully-shaped cock that sprung free, already wet and dripping at the head.

Andy reached out and caught Sam by the waist of his jeans, slowly pulling him forward and tugging the zipper down, and Sam went willingly, stumbling into that taught chest, hands cupping the chef’s jaw, kicking his pants off as he went in hungrily for another kiss.

Andy fell back on the bed, breathless and slick, his swollen dick bouncing on his heaving stomach. Sam towered over him, eyes gone deep storm-blue with desire, and hooked two fingers under the sides of his boxers. He let the fabric drag, almost painfully so, over his aching cock, scratching down over his hips, the swollen head, his tight sack. As soon as they fell to the floor, Andy was there, so quick, hands holding onto Sam’s ass for dear life, tongue worshipping the slit, dipping down the sides of his shaft to place needy little kisses.

“Oh god…” Sam’s head fell back, muscles tensing all across his body, triggered by the shivers of pleasure coursing through his blood. A hot wet mouth closed on his cock, sucking, drinking up his precome, insatiable, and so…  _ so fucking good at it. _

He reached down to run a hand through Andy’s hair, and his eyes flew open. Looking down at the head bobbing there, making love to his generous length, his heart constricted.  _ Darker than Dean’s hair, _ he thought.  _ But it feels the same. The same silky-rough texture. The same length. Ah god, Dean. _

Andy pulled away with a sucking  _ pop! _ , and leaned back on his heels to gaze adoringly up at Sam, his mouth slack and lips flushed rosy-red with spit. “You are beautiful, Sam.” He whispered. “You’re perfect.”

_ “I’m not perfect.” _ Sam hissed back, a war playing out in his head and his heart—torn between intense desire and the knowledge that this wasn’t right... this wasn’t  _ Dean _ , and was this a betrayal if the brother you loved didn’t return the feeling?

His mind stopped churning as Andy rose to his feet and pulled them both onto the bed. Sam ran his hands up and down his new lover’s sun-darkened body, fingertips playing across those golden freckles, reaching down to cup his tight balls, to rub his thumb along the white-hot skin just below. Andy moaned, arching up off the bed under Sam’s ministrations.  _ His skin is like silk, hot, caramel silk _ … the knowledge blossomed at the back of Sam’s mind, as did the image of Dean sprawled out like a lion, languid and stunning in the sun, on these very same silk sheets.

“Want to feel you, with me,” Andy whispered, one hand teasing Sam’s nipple to attention, the other hand reaching down to grasp the rigid shaft of Sam’s cock, stroking it with an oil-warm palm, thumbing Sam’s leaking head.

With a small grunt of exertion, Sam moved down the bed, arm pillowed behind Andy’s head, and spit into his palm. He grasped Andy’s cock, closing his big hand around both of their dicks. Slowly at first, then faster, they moved their hands in tandem, building a delicious heat, a stuttering rhythm. The chef’s mouth found Sam’s, and teased his lips open with gentle swathes of his tongue, nibbling, moaning across Sam’s teeth. 

As their rhythm built, as more pearls of precome seeped down to slick their hands, the kisses became rougher, and Sam crushed Andy down into the bed, using the weight of his body to trap that beautiful face in a hungry kiss that left them breathless and wild-eyed.

“I… I can’t…” Sam hissed, feeling his orgasm building, the pressure behind his eyes sparkling and reflected in Andy’s own luminous gaze.

“Come on me,” Andy breathed, suddenly focused and all over tense, hand pumping furiously underneath Sam’s own. Perfect, rhythmic strokes—intended to drive them both mad and over the edge.

With a shuddering breath, Sam let go of himself. Let go of his pain, his fear, his self-hatred—and for a moment, bliss washed over and through him in waves as his dick spilled and spilled and  _ spilled _ hot come all over Andy’s taught belly. He felt heat, wetness, and deep satisfaction as he felt Andy do the same—coating their hands and catching on Sam’s lower chest. 

They lay glued together, shuddering, for a handful of moments—Andy was the first to look into Sam’s eyes. What he saw there—what he must have been looking for, and didn’t find—clearly surprised him, because the familiar ghost of sadness returned to his gaze, and he began to roll to his side, reaching for the towel Sam had thrown over a chair that morning.

Head clearing, feeling both liquid with release and tense with uncertainty, Sam began to move as well— _ and froze,  _ eyes wide and glossy.

His breath. Cloudy. In the  _ icy cold _ air.

A ghost.

_ Room 86. _

“What is it—” Andy started to ask, but Sam held up a hand, placed it on his chest, shaking his head. 

_ “Don’t move,” _ he whispered, and began to inch his way toward the side of the bed, and the bag lying on the floor.

That’s when two things happened, in one split second:

_ She _ appeared, Margery Atwood, a brittle portrait of beauty in decay, letting loose a blood-curdling scream as she flew toward Sam with knives in her rotting hands.

And  _ that’s _ when Dean hurtled in, door slamming beside him, looking like a thundercloud: dangerous, hard-edged, poised to strike.

Sam dove for the bag, and knew he was one lucky bastard when his fingers closed around the iron bar and not an extra pair of boxers. He moved like lightning, slicing through the ghost just as she was inches away from tearing into him.

_ “Sam?” _ Dean asked with incredulity, his movements temporarily halted.

_ “It’s her, _ Dean!” Sam shouted, on his feet and in a pair of jeans at record speed.  _ “Margery!” _

Dean’s gaze flitted over to Andy, who was in the midst of shaking off his shock; flitted over the sheets, sticky with come, the clothes on the floor, the teeth-marks on Sam’s neck.

“Her remains—they’re in this room!” Sam shouted, trying desperately to break his brother’s trance. “We’ve got to find them and burn them,  _ now!” _

Slowly, but with his usual deadly grace, Dean started moving, started looking—but Sam wasn’t sure those green-green eyes were actually seeing anything. After all, the expression on Dean’s face had been devastating. Shock, incredulity, pain. It was profound, and Sam was floored by it.

With a screech, Margery’s ghost appeared next to Andy, who was struggling to pull on a pair of chef’s slacks from his bag. Bless those culinary reflexes—the ghost came within inches of stabbing into his sweat-damp flesh, but Andy dodged her swiftly, eyes cutting to Sam in a moment of pure fear. Sam lunged, slicing the starlet in half just as she lifted the knife to strike again.

_ “Sam!” _ Dean shouted, and Sam’s attention was pulled instantly back to his brother, his Dean, his everything. “What—what’s it look like? We don’t have time for a fucking EMF!”

“I… I don’t know!” Sam was looking around desperately, head snapping back and forth, big hands sweeping across paintings, in the curtains, under the mattress. He couldn’t miss the wrathful expression on Dean’s face. It had transformed from one of shock and sadness to intense, burning jealousy.

_ Dean. Jealous. There’s… there’s no way. _

“Margery…” He almost missed the voice, it was so quiet, so small. Andy was inching backward toward the wall, eyes blown wide open as he tried to process the situation. “She was a star… she was vain…” His gaze fell on the gilded mirror next to the window. “What’s… that?”

Sam followed his gaze, and saw it instantly—a scrap of paper, easy to miss if you weren’t looking, tucked into the mirror’s shining frame.

As he dove for it, he barely caught Andy’s next words. “I should have known… room 86.  _ Where all the murders have been _ …”

Margery screamed into life right behind Dean, and if Dean hadn’t ducked down on his heels, the knives would have split his back like butter. “BITCH!” Dean yelled, driving his own iron rod upward, icing the ghost as she roared with frustration. “I saw the signs, Sam—in the hallway, when I got back, right outside  _ our _ room!” His furious gaze cut over to Andy, emphasis on “our.”

Sam yanked out the note, curled from age, but with a script as elegant as the note Andy had once sent with his dinner.  _ “I will always love you, Margery,” _ he read aloud,  _ “in death as I did in life.” _

“Sam!” Dean threw a lighter at him, and Sam caught it, bringing it down with a flick of his thumb to catch fire.

Their tragic, beautiful ghost went down in flames.

\-----

“Here,” Sam wrapped a blanket around Andy’s shoulders. The chef was shaking lightly, but had managed to clean up and finish dressing.

“Thanks,” Andy offered in a small voice, and out of the corner of his eyes, Sam could see the glowering stare Dean had leveled on the other man. He radiated a mixture of unhappiness and raw grief. “So… the ghost rumor was true.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, easing into his top layers after a brief and awkward wipe-down in the bathroom. Dean continued to clean his gun, having already packed his bag. Clearly, vacation was over. “I’m just sorry you had to, you know, learn the truth.”

Andy seemed to come out of his fog then, eyes blinking, back straightening. He looked at Sam, then back Dean, studying something, Sam didn’t know what. Two more glances in, and Sam almost detected a knowing slip of a smile at the corners of his plush, rosy lips. “Yeah,” Andy whispered, “I learned the  _ truth _ .”

And then it was Sam’s turn to see it, to really  _ know _ it: Andy’s intense eyes, hooded by long dark lashes. His sun-kissed skin, coppery freckles peppered like stars in the sky. His full, dusky lips and strong, swift hands. 

_ Oh, my god. _

_ Brother.  _

It always, always came back to Dean.

There was a pregnant pause that swelled in the room, and Sam swallowed back his grief and guilt, and Dean caught his eyes, vivid green with barely-concealed jealousy and betrayal, and Andy stood up.

“I—I need to go.” He turned toward Sam, eyes shining with tears unshed. “I’m… grateful. For what you did.” That honeyed voice floated into Sam’s heart, and to his surprise, left a tender mark.  _ Grateful for what? _ Sam thought.  _ The lovemaking, or the lifesaving? _

And then, with a soft click of the door, Andy was gone, leaving only the ghosts of unspoken things behind in room 86.

\-----

After a long, tense silence standing outside the entrance to the Pearl, a valet finally pulled the Impala ‘round, and Dean wasted no time tossing his bag into the backseat and passing a ten-spot to the kid.

“I can’t believe you… you’d bring a  _ guy _ back to  _ our _ room.” Dean spat out in a dangerously low voice as soon as they were on the road.

_ So *that’s* how we’re breaking the silence, then?  _ Sam thought miserably. With a heavy sigh, he turned and looked at Dean’s handsome profile, darkened in simmering tension. It felt so much easier to stay quiet and just absorb the pain, rather than try desperately to find the words. Sam supposed comparing it to the multitude of women Dean had invited in wouldn’t move the needle in his direction at all.

“I didn’t even know you were  _ into _ guys.” Dean followed, eyes darting to the left and quickly back to the road. “Just how many secrets are you keeping from me, anyway, Sam?”

“None, it seems, now.” Sam said in a hushed voice, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that I never told you. You just… you never asked.”

“But Jessica—” Dean started to interrupt. 

“—wasn’t the first I loved,” Sam finished, “just the one I loved most.”  _ Almost, almost, almost as much as you, brother,  _ belied his thoughts.

Dean was silent for a long moment, his whole body stiff, hands flexing on the wheel.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam broke the lull. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. I didn’t… I didn’t think you cared who I slept with.”

Dean punched the steering wheel. “I don’t! Except. Except,  _ other guys.” _ He seemed to be pulling his words out of his ass, unsure what was going to come next. “I just don’t like it.”

“You’re not a homophobe.” Sam stated grimly, accurately.

“Of course not,” Dean sighed, a little of the fire in him fizzling out. “But I feel… different, with you. Never thought I’d have to share you with another guy. You’re my  _ brother, _ not just some one-night stand.”

Sam felt a tightness in his chest and a slight swell of his cock at the tender-fierceness in those words. Shifting in his seat, trying to comprehend what was happening, he palmed his dick down and coughed.

“I love you too, Dean,” he managed, trying to ease the tension in the car.

Dean rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated. “You can’t make me say those words.”

“I know,” Sam said softly. Tentatively, hesitantly, he reached out to wrap a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, massaging the tight muscles there, teasing over the short hairs. “But I’ll say it enough for both of us.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, and he relaxed back into the touch. As soon as the meaning buried in Sam’s words seeped in past the pleasure, he sharpened back toward the road, shooting a glance at his little brother. “You’re talking about your chatterbox, there, right?”

“Sure,” Sam straightened in his seat, eyes on the road. Dean relaxed, and Sam smiled faintly. He felt a twinge of confidence—of  _ fuck it, why not? _ —seep lazily across his mind. “And because what I’d love to do with you isn’t far off from what I did with Andy.”

The Impala came to a twisting, screeching stop on the side of the dark highway, and Sam shot forward, nearing bumping his head on the window. Dean was staring at him incredulously.

“You. What?” Dean processed, badly.

“You heard me,” Sam leaned forward, rubbing his neck. He dropped any pretense of jest and turned soulful eyes on his brother. “It’s always been you. And even if you’ll never accept that, I’m tired of hiding it.” He reached out to lay a hand on Dean’s thigh, and after an imperceptible twitch, Dean allowed it to stay. “I don’t know exactly what happened back there, Dean, but you… you seemed… like you would  _ kill _ Andy if he touched me. Like I was…  _ yours.” _

_ “You. Are.” _ The words were so quiet, Sam almost missed them. Heat was radiating off Dean, and Sam moved his hand a little higher, testing this tremulous new connection, this previously unfathomable idea. He noticed the slightest swell to Dean’s jeans, and a heady scent in the air, musky and spicy, intoxicating.

“So… have you… never felt that? Ever? Even the… the tiniest bit?” Sam placed the words carefully in the air between them, one by one, terrified of the explosive power they carried.

Dean looked at the stars for a long, long time, then down at Sam’s hand. A shaking, strong hand left the wheel to hover above Sam’s hand, barely brushing the top, like he couldn’t decide whether or not to make contact.

With a shaking breath, Dean jerked it back to the wheel, and turned a fierce, raw gaze back on Sam. Dean’s eyes were shining with tears.

“I don’t  _ know _ how I feel!” Dean roared through clenched teeth, something in him breaking open, and he yanked the door wide, climbing out of the Impala and to his feet in one sleek movement. 

Sam grappled for a moment with the fear coiling in his gut— _ how could he hurt Dean like this? He should never have let these cutting, wounding words out _ —before climbing out after his big brother. 

Dean was standing five or six feet away from the Impala, facing the desert, hands clenched at his sides. He was staring up at the glittering, star-studded Palm Springs sky above, clear and floral and heady in the night. The glow from the city was miles and miles away.

“Well, I know how I feel,” Sam whispered, “how I’ve felt since I was a teenager.”

At that, Dean turned, and after a brief soul-searching look, gaze raking over his all-grown baby brother, body dripping with the languid energy of good sex while his eyes cried in pain and loss, Dean fell forward like a dam breaking.

Closing the short distance between them, Dean pushed Sam up against the car, pressing into him, all strength, all-over trembling. It was as if this level of closeness was both filling some deep part of him, yet burning him at the touch.

_ “That long?” _ Dean asked, in a guilty, heartbroken way. “Jesus.” His strong hands gripped Sam’s jaw, and he pressed his lips into Sam’s cheek, a mere inch from his mouth, breathing and straining. “I didn’t  _ know, _ Sammy.”

The heat running up and down the front of Sam’s body, the feel of Dean’s lips, the salty-sweet sweat of his skin… Sam could feel himself melting under the onslaught of Dean’s raw emotion, the blissed-out full-body contact. His lips parted, he tried to turn the inch to his left to close the distance between their mouths, but Dean had him pinned. His hands, trembling with want, moved slowly onto his big brother’s hips, fingers roaming, tightening, slipping under the hem of Dean’s shirts to tingle at the soft, taught skin underneath.

“I’ve loved you in more ways than I could ever tell you, Dean,” Sam fought back tears, relishing this impossibly intimate moment. His muscles shook with the pain and fear of being so completely, utterly vulnerable in what he was about to say. “A love that goes… deeper than brotherly. Always has.”

Dean pulled back just enough to look Sam in the eyes, considering. One hand stayed cupped on Sam’s jawline, thumb stroking the beauty mark on his cheek, while another fell to where Sam’s tattoo lay just underneath his shirt.

“I spent years at Stanford running from it,” Sam continued hesitantly. “Trying to bury it. But it was always there, like a… a torch I carried. For you. For someday.”  _ More like a torch I kept hidden, in the blackest depths of my soul. _ Sam thought darkly.  _ I shouldn’t be putting any of this on Dean. It’s too much to carry. Even for him. _

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean’s voice was shattered. “I don’t know what to do with  _ this.” _ His fingers traced the outline of Sam’s tattoo, then abruptly pulled back. Dean pushed away, as if suddenly remembering how wrong it would be to explore this new revelation. “This… scares the shit out of me.”

Sam leaned forward, catching Dean’s wrists in his hands; to his credit, Dean didn’t immediately pull away. I’m scared, too.” He reasoned, suddenly hopeful. “I can share this  _ with _ you,” Sam offered, both a statement and a question. “I… can show you. And if you wanted to share it with me, I’ll never bring anyone else to our room again,” Sam held Dean’s eyes, hazel-blue depths unfathomable. “After all, there  _ is  _ no one else.”

“You’re my  _ brother.” _ Dean’s face fell, his eyes closed tight. “You’re my  _ Sammy.” _

“But isn’t it just that, Dean?” Sam asked. “We’re each other’s _ everything,  _ now. It’s us against the world. And this? This might not be textbook-right with the world, but how long will this world really be here, anyway?” He sounded more and more like he was pleading, breath by breath. “Sure, we probably can’t go back from this. But what if we never realize what… what it  _ could _ be? How good it could be? What if…” Sam’s voice dropped low and raw, and his shoulders followed suit, “...if this is what was always  _ meant  _ to be?”

Dean lifted his gaze to look, longingly, searchingly, into Sam’s stormy eyes. Sam could see the play of emotions across his face, could see the internal struggle playing out. Dean sighed and rubbed his face, his shoulders slumping, defeated.

“I need to think about this,” he said quietly, placing one hand on Sam’s arm, motioning to release his wrists. A double-edged knife sliced into Sam’s chest: the intense push of possibility, and elation, and the bitter chill of fear. Despite the conflict in Dean’s voice, his hand stayed on Sam’s arm, holding him tight. An anchor in the storm. “Give me some time.”

  
[TO BE CONTINUED IN CH. 2]


End file.
